Mythos & Marginalia

life notes; flaws and all

j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a daily breath...

A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .

Mondays are just young Fridays

We tire of unpredictable weather, the damp morning chill, wet socks and lost mittens. Winter keeps reminding it is not through with us.
   We have suffered long enough.
   The streets are tired and dirty and the time change only makes things darker in the morning.
   We need a brighter view.
   We need, now, the renewal that comes with spring.

03/20/2023                                                                                          j.g.l.


Progress comes less from planning than participation.
Dreams and wishes require action and attention.
Start moving.

03/19/2023                                                                                                         j.g.l.

forever wonder

If we wait too long
for the stars to align, for
some kind of hope, or
some kind of sign,
if we let our lives hang on
still-bated breath, we will
forever wonder
what is still to come
or what we have left. If we
don’t own the moments,
or make them our own,
will we ever feel like
we’ve made our way home?
If we can’t be honest
with others, and especially
our selves,
can we ever explain why
or how
we once felt?
If we wait too long, it
may never arrive.
Stop waiting,
start doing,
start feeling alive.

© 2016 j.g. lewis

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
other times
dull or
Still I write.

j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.

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Is It Ever As It Seems

Posted on December 17, 2022 by j.g.lewis Leave a comment


December rain sneaks into a sleep that may

or might not have been. Gentle, with enough of a breath

to be noticed, yet crafty enough to remain unknown.

Window open slightly, the world from

the other side of the curtains

seeps into your space. If sleep is sleep, or has it been?

Wide-eyed now, hands reaching upwards, grasping at clouds

and the residue that comes with the season. Emotions,

struggling with premonitions of silence, you attempt

to fashion thoughts into dreams

of what you want or where you’ve seen

or what you wish, or what might have been.

It’s not bright, not this time of day. There can’t be a moon,

not one you can see anyway.

Clouds and thoughts, and your restless ways

fighting the fever for hours and for days.

You might seem so strong and still, right now, who can say.

Lucent thought, lenient waves, comfort you enough to stay

tangled in the life you knew

in this sleep, just not all the way through.

Who you are, or what you want

the raindrops fall, the memories taunt.


Night is only a time for precious remembrances. No one can hear

what you think, perhaps no one can know. Not even you.

A life imagined. You can’t turn it off, or

turn it down, or see your way to shut out the view.

The only one is you. Trying to speak the words

you need to feel, you come up silent against

the rain’s steady peel. It’s takes over, it always does.

December rain. It’s not the same. The chill

cannot be the temperature, you are wrapped in the blankets,

pillows pushed aside in a heap, as they are when you sleep.

A rest that is not now, for if it were 

would you hear your heartbeat, or remember

all that you dream? Or is it ever as it seems.

The steady rhythm never forgets, patterns of the past

come back slowly. It’s wet, its cold, the memory is old

but it is right there. Remember.

Of course you do, of course you have,

you cannot spend all those waking hours in

wonder, and not have it come rushing back.

When you’re ready for mercy,

December rain seems to know.

It crashes against the silence and the mystery it holds.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

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